Travelers Welcome

Thursday, September 1, 2011

Magic Lessons

" No honest poet can ever feel quite sure of the permanent value of what he has written: he may have wasted his time and messed up his life for nothing.'--T.S. Eliot

I think,I know,the poem's starting to wear off.
But I'm alive one more day. Need to read more. I
was given these scars you understand to sounds of
fluted out hollowed veins against a perfectly radiant

coming of the ocean to mean something
well almost concrete and immediate, like "Don't
push me out there yet. It's okay. I'll wait for my
tide.Then I'll lift off without any more help from

you, thank you." There's the beauty to it. I don't pretend
to escape rare kindness either. Oh where'd I
put those glasses? You know. The ones I always wear
when I'm not able to see that it's been getting

awfully late.Probably never finish the
song you washed upon my forehead with your long as
the color of the sun wiped sheet of pure and golden
sand combed hair. All's fair I guess. Although it breaks

the door down to my garden without so much as
a polite knock. Sometimes even a small whistle
will do to let someone know you care enough to
visit them in their dreams. It's wearing thin. And I'm

becoming visible again.I need more words
to survive. I'm feeling less and less like turning
the wheel in front of your face to make the colors
collide into a one of a kind mountain of ash

for your amusement. Be all gone. Soon. You'll start to
see raindrops through your windshield. There'll be no other
choice. Certainly there must be something more to us
than conjoint sad notepads. Why do I continue

to conjure from their inky depths to the surface
of the mind floating alphabetical blocks of
heart-shaped burns? No matter. It's just the lack of pure
symbols to the brain speaking in hallucinogenic

tropes.Go sound to sleep silvery moon girl
where we can at least find raw courage to continue
to trill our secret names for each other through
holes in stars and fan the universe with kisses.

We'll find more hills of noise if it kills us.
And if it doesn't we'll be back tomorrow with
our plastic buckets and shovels to begin once
more to build a home for no one. One size fits all.